


Homicide

by ieromantic



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Almost everyone dies, Depression, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Psychopath Frank, Suicide, dom frank, frank iero - Freeform, gerard way - Freeform, messed up, sorry - Freeform, sub gerard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 09:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3405986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ieromantic/pseuds/ieromantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank Iero is obsessed with death; Gerard Way wants to die. When they cross paths, something lies beneath first appearances, and an awful lot of chaos ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Tobacco

Gerard's smoking again. That's all he does these days; he rolls his cares and his worries and his health into a cigarette and watches them unfurl in a choking cloud of smoke. He smirks as he thinks about how much he's ruining his lungs - he likes that, he likes thinking about death, he likes thinking about his  _own_  death.

Frank is 18, and he likes thinking about death too, but that is more in a sort of curious sense. Suicide, genocide, you name it - any type of killing interests Frank to an extent that is probably borderline unhealthy. He doesn't even want to kill, he just finds the concept so captivating. He, in a way, likes how a person would spend several hundred hours plotting a death - be it someone else's, or their very own.

The two boys are outside the exact same building at the exact same time, yet they have no idea of one another's presence. Gerard is round the back of the building in which they both receive counselling (Frank's for anxiety, Gerard's for anti-social behavior - neither of them pay any attention to the advice they're given). Frank has just left, and as he steps out of the clinic, the smell of antiseptic and receptionist sweat is replaced with the comparably delicious scents of car fumes and tobacco. _Tobacco_. Tobacco is the giveaway smell of somebody who wants to die. The tobacco addicts are willing to exchange money, their hard-earned money, for sticks that they know full well would enrage every cell in their diminishing body.

Gerard throws the skinny cigarette onto the floor with a reluctant sigh and grinds it under the toe of his Converse. He has to get back home - he is 24, his life is just beginning, he has work to do. Stack after stack of paperwork - work stuff and money stuff and other things, all of which make Gerard want to retreat into a deep, dark ditch and never return. As he turns the corner, onto the street, he feels a sudden collision - a head crashing against his chest.

"Fucking- Hey, kid, watch where you're going!" he snaps, and the unusually short teenager pulls himself away from Gerard. The usually short teenager is Frank, death-obsessed Frank, stood so close to Gerard that he can practically hear his heartbeat. He doesn't know that Gerard wants to die, but from the smell of tobacco that still lingers on the older boy's lips, he is not far away from figuring it out.

"S...sorry..." Frank mutters nervously, taking a few shaky steps away from Gerard.

Gerard is insanely homosexual, and he thinks Frank is beautiful. He doesn't even know his name, but already he finds the small, anxious teenager interesting, from his messy, curly hair to the piercing that curls over his bottom lip. The two boys look at eachother. Frank knows that Gerard is easily about 5 years older than him, but when he looks at him he doesn't even acknowledge that anymore. There is something between them, some spark, and it makes them both smile somewhat shyly.

"Do you wanna... get coffee?" Frank looks up at Gerard with big, sparkling hazel eyes, and Gerard melts a little. Gerard lets the corners of his mouth curl up into a little smile, daring Frank to expand on his request.

"Wanna rephrase that?" the older boy bites his lip slightly, suggestively, wishing, hoping,  _daring_. Frank smirks at him, and even though the two have only been acquainted for a matter of minutes, he speaks out loud what he would never dare of even whispering to anyone any less addictively, attractively outrageous as Gerard.

"Okay, fine." he laughs. "Wanna get me up against a wall and make out?"

"It'd be my pleasure."

"I don't even know your name."

"Gerard. My name's Gerard."

"Mine's Frank. Now get me up against that fucking wall."

So that's what Gerard does. The two boys find eachother's lips easily and they stay there, kissing and laughing and moving with one another. Frank finds that Gerard tastes of cigarettes and longing; longing for life, longing for death, longing for love. Frank, on the other hand, tastes of Coca Cola and medication.

"Hell..." Gerard mutters as they part briefly for air. Frank looks up at him in bemusement, and smiles at quite how cute he looks when he's overwhelmed.

"What?" Frank giggles, and Gerard laughs with him a little, brushing the hair out the smaller boy's eyes.

"You're good at this."

"Don't sound so surprised." Frank grins, pulling his arms tighter around Gerard's neck. His head tilts upwards and he kisses Gerard again, amused by his own sudden confidence. When he is with Gerard, he feels bold and carefree, and properly happy. He hasn't felt properly happy in a very, very long time.

Gerard's phone buzzes unpleasantly in the front left pocket of his tight skinny jeans, and, upon hearing it, he pulls himself away from Frank with an annoyed groan.

"Sorry. I really ought to get this."

Frank shrugs and stays leaned against the red brick wall, waiting patiently as Gerard answers.

"'Sup?... No, I'm kind of... Yeah, busy... No, I guess I can... Fine... I'll be two minutes." Gerard keeps flicking his gaze towards Frank as he talks, subconsciously biting his lip and touching his hair. Then, he slides the phone back into his pocket and turns back to Frank.

"Sorry. That was my brother... I really have to go. But I'll... I'll see you around?"

Gerard would like to do more that just see Frank around. He would like to see Frank all the time, to be with him and hold him and listen to him. He hardly knows the kid, he doesn't know his surname or his hometown or how old he is. But there is something about Frank that Gerard is horribly attracted to, despite their acquaintance only having been made for a matter of minutes.

"Sure. See you around." Frank replies, not knowing what to feel. He has just spent the past few minutes being kissed by Gerard, this beautiful red-haired stranger, and now... nothing. They are parting without so much as one another's numbers, Frank's senses left tingling as Gerard walks away.


	2. Aspirin

_Frank. Confused, afflicted, exasperated. Longing._

I sit on my bed and I think.

I'm ill - I've convinced myself it's a common cold, and it probably is, but my mother is fraught with worry, forcing Lucozade down my throat whenever she has the chance and trying to feed me for every second that I'm awake.

"Mom, I'm fine, really." I'd say, pushing her off my shoulders for the millionth time.

"But Frankie, honey, you're pale!" she'd argue as she attempted to slip pills into my mouth, not backing down in this typical teenage-son-and-overprotective-mother tussle. I love my mother, I really do, but she pisses me off to the complete extreme, on occasion.

"I'm always pale." I'd scoff, and then she'd give in and slide away in a strop, only to come back 20 minutes later with crumpets, and a cup of posh tea. She'd be happier in 1920's England, I swear.

The crumpets would be well toasted initially, but softened and wilting with butter, depressingly moistened by fermented dairy, having lost all their initial appeal. And the tea - I never much liked tea anyway, but the way mum makes tea is absolutely repulsive; weak and milky and sugary to a point that the granulated cane is all you can taste. I do hope that's not how the British take it - if it is, they clearly have issues with their tastebuds.

It has reached the point now, at precisely 2:49 on a Sunday afternoon in March, where I'm not even sure if I'm actually ill, or just suffering from post-Gerard syndrome. It's been 3 and a half weeks since our admittedly very brief makeout session, and I've been to the clinic 5 times since. And not one single time did I spot him. No tell-tale trail of tobacco, no flash of wild red hair, no intoxicating smirk or his pretty eyes.

I bet he's forgotten about me. To him, I was, more than likely, just a quick dabble into difference. From me, he experienced flirting with and laughing with and making out with the younger kid, the less experienced kid, the shy, scared, awkward kid. And clearly, that was not good enough for him. He, on the other hand, is definitely good enough for me, _beyond_  good enough for me, which is why it hurts so spitefully that I will never kiss his lips or touch his hair or hold his body again.

I can hear my father downstairs, obnoxiously loud as always, stomping into the kitchen. I don't like him. He is angry and picky and depressive, but beyond that, he's a slightly decent parent and he does care about me. Sometimes, I think he may care a little too much, but a different type of caring than my mother drowns me in. My mother is typical - fussing around me and worrying about my health and my hair and whether or not I'm getting bullied, and that's rather sweet in it's own way, but my father is different. He cares that I get home before 11, that I go to counselling, that I don't join gangs or punch 5th Graders in the face; his amount of worrying only extends to things that could get  _him_  in trouble if I do them. I get back late, beaten up and drunk? _He_  gets arrested for poor childcare. I skip a couselling session? My counsellor becomes convinced I have something to hide, something regarding home. I become a gang leader, going around hurting people and carrying knives? _He_  is the one that gets complained at by the parents of the kids I hurt. Lucky for him, I'm intelligent and wouldn't make any of those mistakes, but he doesn't seem to realise that, so he spends far too much of his life thinking I'm an idiot, despite the fact that I'm technically an adult now and capable of making my own decisions. I hardly ever talk to him - he barks commands at me and I either silently follow them or silently don't, depending on their importance. I don't think I've addressed him with the title of 'dad' since I was twelve years old.  _Victim One._

I'm hungry, and should probably go somewhere to get food, but the comfort of my bed is, in itself, so delicious, that I really can't summon up the energy. I groan softly, lazily, to nobody but myself, and run my fingers through my messy hair, and pull my hoodie sleeves over my hands.

_Swoon, this is the same old blood rush with a new touch._

I'm not fully sure what to do with my limbs as I sit on my bed.

_I am safe, quaint and eloquent._

I decide summon up the considerable effort that goes into crossing my legs, find it uncomfortable, then uncross them with a resigned, self-pitying sigh. I give up and lie amongst sheets and pillows and books that I left half-read, having found them achingly boring.

_But my bottom lip, along with the top one too,_

Christ alive, my head's pounding. I am coffee-deprived and painkiller-deprived and Gerard-deprived.

_Is chapped and it's all thanks to you._

God, Gerard. Either my mind has elaborated his every feature in the time that's past since I met him, or he really is  _that_  beautiful,  _that_  charming,  _that_  important that he can take over the entire capacity of my being. Inundating my brain and bloodstream and every action with his contagious giggle and effortless smile.

_We all wet our lips to prepare for the kiss,_

The air that hovers listlessly throughout my bedroom is stale, infused with condensing Earl Grey vapours and the fading smell of an overheated radiator.

_But it never came._

I pull myself up off my bed, readjust my jeans and take the 3 small steps required to reach my bedroom door.

_We all wet our lips to prepare for the kiss,_

The landing is tinted dull orange by too-bright cheap Ikea lightbulbs, dirt ground into the cream carpet despite the fact that shoes are  _strictly not allowed upstairs_. Pfft, rules are made to be broken.

_It was but a game._

I can still hear my frankly quite abhorrent father figure sulking and getting stuff out the fridge downstairs. I creep down the stairs as quietly as I can manage, look around, and when my parents are suitably otherwise occupied, I slip out the front door and pull it to a quiet shut behind me.

_You have a moan all of your own,_

I have not the slightest idea where I'm going to go as I stand in the porch and breathe in the fresh air. I decide that I will be a proper teenager, and sit in the park swigging alcohol from the bottle.

_And I can feel it down to the bone._

There is only a limited selection of alcohol that I actually enjoy drinking. Alcopops are amongst them, because, evidently, I'm hardcore as fuck. Smirnoff Ice, today, I think. Smirnoff Ice.

_You have a moan all of your own,_

Before I've even reached the till, a bottle of raspberry Smirnoff in each hand, the cashier throws me the dirtiest of looks. She is scrawny and questionably dressed and has a natural expression that makes her appear like she just got stung in the arse by a wasp, anyhow, so the glare is really not helping her first impression on me.

_And I can feel it down to the bone._

She pesters me for my ID in the scratchiest of voices, and I slide the fake driver's license over the desk. Her grey-blue eyes scrutinise it, checking the hologram, repeatedly looking at the photo then at me. To her own dismay and my complete amusement, she doesn't find a single fault, and accepts my money. I take the ID back with a smirk, grab the bottles by the neck and walk out.

_You trained these lips when they were champs,_

The park is cold and dewdrop-y and overgrown, but there's something very reminiscent about being here, where I spend most of my childhood in innocence. It's November, and it's cold, so the whole of the park is pretty much barren. There's just a tired-looking mum and her over-excited toddler, a group of four or five rowdy teenage lads abusing a soccer ball with their Adidas sneakers, and a small girl, maybe about 14 or 15, with pale pink hair wearing a hoodie, sat on a swing and gently propelling herself into motion.

_And now they're itching for a comeback._

I take myself to a patch of grass and sit down, observing the park. It's big and grassy - probably overly so - satisfyingly child-friendly but also tolerable for picky teenagers and exhausted adults. It's a nice, bright, space, usually filled with every bracket of person from newborns to the nearly-dead.

_So come back._

I sit and I drink barely-alcoholic alcopop and I try to get Gerard off my mind. I can't.

_It's a shame that your claim to fame_

I suppose I could go into the clinic and ask around. I only know his first name, but Gerard strikes me as such an interesting character that anybody that made his acquaintance would remember him; I certainly do.

 _Hangs on someone else's name_.

But, then, part of me doesn't even want to know his every detail. It'd ruin the mystery, the bits of him that make me endlessly curious. I don't even know his surname, goddamn.

_So come back, such a task and this is such a blast,_

I'll just... Hell, I don't know. I'll just go in and ask for his surname. That's all I need, right? I can just Facebook search him, or something, send him a friend request. If he accepts it, that's cool, I'll message him. And if he doesn't? Well, I suppose I'll just have to erase Gerard from my memory.

_And such a task, and this is such a blast, and all that jazz._

The clinic's only a couple minutes away so I get up off the grass and shake myself off and walk. The girl with the pink hair looks up at me as I walk past and gives me a smile. I didn't know teenagers girls were even capable of smiling; all most of them do is listen to shitty dance music and wear stupid clothes and moan about people. But the hair girl has a Joy Division patch on her rucksack, so she doesn't strike me as all that bad. I give her a smile back and I swear to fuck she blushes. Wow.

_You have a dangerous face,_

The clinic is, as usual, unsettlingly white and clean and  _clinical_  when I walk in. Emma is behind the desk, using her thumb to pick at the fingernail of her second finger. Emma's possibly the only genuinely pleasant person that works here; she's around my age, sweet and pretty, with not a single nasty bone in her body. It's been evident for a while that Emma has the most adorable of crushes on me; her face softens whenever I'm around and she'll find any excuse to touch me, just friendly gestures - touching my back or a little hug or swiping my hair out my eyes.

_And illegal taste,_

"Frankie, hi!" Emma's whole face lights up when she sees me walk in. "I thought you didn't come in on Sundays."  
"I don't." I give her a quick smile and walk over to the desk she's standing behind. "I wanted to ask you something."  
" _Me?_ " she exclaims. Oh, fuck; she's thinks I'm about to ask her out.

_And that strap is fallen on that shoulder blade,_

"Um, yeah. About someone who comes here. He's called Gerard, but I don't know his surname. Can you, maybe, search for him or something?"  
"Oh. Yeah. Sure." Emma tries to hide her disappointment, and I feel like a twat. I would ask Emma out... If I wasn't pining for a guy with soft lips and bright red hair.  
Emma types 'Gerard' into the database and I wait, irrationally nervous, as we wait for the results to load.

 _Be patient; behave_.

**Mr. Gerard A Way**

"There." Emma says, pointing at the singular name on the screen.

Gerard Way. It's gorgeous. I try it out, letting each syllable roll off my tongue, under my breath, and Emma looks up at me expectantly.  
"Thanks, Em." I shrug as pleasantly as I can manage. "I'll see you Tuesday?"  
Emma nods, and I turn to walk away.  
"He comes in on Sundays, you know." she says as I begin to leave, causing me to spin around and look at her.  
"What?"  
"Sundays. Gerard Way comes in on Sundays. At 4."   
We both glance at the clock in the entrance. It's about 3:45, and I feel myself grin. Emma, seeing this, smiles too.   
"Wanna wait for him?" she asks. She's got me figured out; she's picked up on how much I want to see Gerard again.  
"God, yes."

 _You trained these lips when they were champs_ ,

The time passes awfully slowly as I sit on one of the uncomfortable white chairs and wait for him. I twiddle my thumbs a lot, and beat my high score on Flappy Bird (326), and listen to half a Cute Is What We Aim For song. Only half, because the lyrics make me think of Gerard.  
I send Gerard a friend request as I wait. He's got 3 mutual friends; Ben Cox, Brad Poplar and Becky Skinner, all people I only know very vaguely. Gerard's offline, but hopefully he'll actually remember who I am and accept the request at some point. I look at the clock so many times I think my fucking neck might snap, and the seconds tick by as if they're hours.

_And now they're itching for a comeback._

And then he's there, actually there, Gerard Way. As beautiful as my mind had led me to believe and fucking  _seeping_  quiet charisma. He's wearing jeans that are so skinny-fitting that they're a god-send, and a loose grey t-shirt and a leather jacket, and he's so bloody attractive that I can't stop staring at him.   
He doesn't see my at first, but when he does he gasps briefly, almost unnoticeably, then his face loosens into his gorgeous smile.   
"Frank." he beams, and I practically disintegrate.


End file.
